


The Mating Habits of Mimus saturninus

by expected_aberrance



Series: Facets [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boundary Issues, Creepy Petyr Baelish, F/M, Living Starks, Lovesickness, Masturbation, Obsession, Pining, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Stalking, creepyship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 15:32:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expected_aberrance/pseuds/expected_aberrance
Summary: A series of random one-shots taking place in the increasingly out-of-order Facets universe. Mostly a collection of prequels and in-betweens that just didn't fit anywhere else. Modern AU with living, disapproving Starks, Littlefinger scheming, and Sansa just about having enough of this shit.Chapter 1--Surveillance or Lonely, Creepy, Pining, Stalker Baelish...





	The Mating Habits of Mimus saturninus

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place pre- _Scars_ and _A Poison Tree_. It isn't necessary to have read the prior works in the series for this particular chapter to make sense, but I'd love it if you chose to.  
>   
>   
> 

_Males choose a territory and then try to attract a female to mate there. As soon as a female enters an unmated male’s territory, the male challenges her with a harsh "chacks". The two birds square off and watch each other. The male pursues the female, and if she leaves he may try to entice her back with spread wings and soft calls. There are three courtship displays that males use to attract female. The male may chase the female through the territory while singing, or her may run around on branches, showing the female where a nest could be built..._

The only illumination in the darkened room was cast by bank of video screens, displaying all manner of perversity and filth--a well-negotiated orgy lubricated with a veritable feast of contraband pharmaceuticals, a trio of sailors enjoying the sinful novelty of a Meereenese knot, a husband watching his wife get thoroughly eaten out by a stunning blonde with surgically augmented tits, a prominent member of the faith being simultaneously choked and pegged with expertise by one of the venue’s more skilled dominatrixes, a senior bank executive on his hands and knees in a dog costume being happily lead around by a man twenty years his junior--each further trespass against purported moral standards outdone by the next as if striving for some pinnacle of depraved achievement.

The figure stationed in front of the lewd exhibition--the proprietor of the establishment and facilitator of the finest filth money could buy--was likewise lit in the monitors’ dim glow, soft highlights cut with deep shadows outlining the planes of his face, a placid, almost motionless witness to the bacchanalia. However, the man at the desk wasn't paying any of it the least bit of attention; Petyr Baelish had little interest or opinion on the activities either way (though he could have done without some of the more outre bodily fluid requests of his patrons). They simply held no draw for him--the filthy, raw mechanics of fucking, sucking, and licking long distilled into cold, disinteresting units of currency, monetary and coercive alike, in his mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t have desires--quite powerful ones, in fact, as evidenced by the prominent bulge between his legs that he re-adjusted periodically with rapt gaze focused on the monitor off-set from the others. No, Petyr’s needs just happened to be wholly and exclusively centered around the lone occupant of the room on the largest screen.

 _Sansa._ Though she wasn't doing anything particularly scandalous, or even interesting by objective standards, merely sitting on one of the couches, fully dressed (an uncommon state for its typical patrons), the young girl held his undivided attention, and had done so for far longer than the current interlude. His eyes tracked her every movement, no matter how mundane or insignificant. The cut of her designer black dress offered a tantalizing view of her breasts, and the pendant hanging between them matched the glittering azure of her eyes, but she wore both garment and accoutrement with an air of resignation, no doubt tainted by the demands of her vile fiance. She used to delight in pretty things, he knew from long observance, but Joffrey’s sadism had warped it, ruining any appeal for her. He very much wanted to give that back to her, to see her smile genuinely in response to a gift or take simple pleasure in wearing something to complement her natural beauty.

Presently, she shifted, wincing, and brought a hand to rub her shoulder gingerly; her intended had twisted it earlier in the evening in stupid cruelty for some minor, likely imagined infraction. She rotated her injured limb experimentally, and he palmed his erection through his trousers, groaning as she bit her lip in concentration--he'd been rock-hard since she walked in the door, a not-unusual occurrence. The phone on the cushion beside her buzzed; he watched her pick it up with trepidation, but the tension in her body released almost immediately, at least for the moment, and her lips quirked in a small smile that had blood surging into his cock anew. She typed a response to whatever she’d been sent--something requiring a quite thorough reply, evidently, judging by how long it took her.

As the party picked up, stray beams of color from the nightclub below started to penetrate the windowed wall, cutting through the darkness shrouding the room, but soon fled, casting afterimages that faded more slowly, leaving him once more in shadow. Petyr was unbothered by the dark. He lived in it, breathed in the shade with ease; it was where he’d felt most at home since the self-designed paragons of light--all honor and bravery and _good breeding--_ rejected him so many years ago, engraving their point most thoroughly and painfully in his flesh, over his heart.   
  
At length, his own phone lit up, signalling an update from her. He retrieved it with his unoccupied hand, unlocking and opening the app, loading the account he’d set up solely to monitor hers (rationalizing it wasn’t truly an invasion of her privacy--what she posted was public, after all). He absorbed its contents quickly, a grin breaking over his face. It was a rebuttal to some drivel posted by an idiot peer of hers; her reply was well-written but idealistic, touting the merits of such radical notions as harm reduction and non-punitive intervention, even skirting the edges of supporting legalization of a host of behaviors that would give her prim and proper parents matching strokes. He would find a way to bring the topic up in conversation when they next spoke. He had a professional interest in the matter, on both sides in fact; his investment in the treatment for the poisons he sold guaranteed him a customer either way. He thoroughly enjoyed watching the ensuing exchange unfold in a flurry of posts as Sansa demolished her opponent, staunch defender of the downtrodden and destitute she was. His imagination supplied her voice, her animated expressions as she made each point. It was a not unfamiliar exercise; he spent a shameful amount of time tracking her activities since she’d moved with her father to King’s Landing, both at a distance and, on rare, precious occasions, in person. He’d watched in fascination as her activity online had changed over time from the light, stereotypical concerns of most teen girls--fashion, pop idols, gossip and the like--to much more weighty, controversial topics, focused particularly in the realm of victim advocacy. Her own experiences likely had much to do with the latter, unfortunately, he mused.

He laughed aloud at one of her particularly cutting remarks--her opponent had in frustration devolved into ad hominem attacks, and Sansa responded in kind with vicious accuracy. Sometimes he engaged with her in similar fashion in anonymity online, challenging her over every nitpicky point until she fumed with delicious indignation. He smirked; it was a far better sight in person. Oh, how he wished to speak to her directly tonight, but sadly, it was too soon to approach her again. He'd had the opportunity to talk to her on Friday for almost an hour after cornering her in a quiet alcove of his club. As an opening salvo, he’d teasingly asked her opinion on the alcohol she was too young to be consuming. She seemed a tad nervous at being alone with him but gamely played along, retorting with a quip about the clearly lax standards of his establishment which had made him chuckle in amusement. She’d smiled at him then, a genuine, shy thing, nothing like the vacuous simpering she was forced to display for the little Lannister tyrant.

Just thinking about it now made his breath hitch and his balls ache, full of want. Somehow she seemed surprised that he was interested in what she had to say. He was, very interested, in everything about her, to a degree that would likely be alarming should he ever reveal the full extent of it. He wanted her to tell him every thought that went through her head, from the profound to the banal. Their conversation that night meandered into the topical, landing on the recent legal challenge brought by some of the wildling tribes seeking to be an official part of the seven kingdoms and elect their own representation. She came down firmly on the side of the wildlings, of course, arguing against him most vehemently.She had a better grasp of nuance and ambiguity than many twice her age and gave as good as she got, keeping him endlessly entertained and aroused in equal measure. Her points might have been dismissed as Panglossian naivete if it were not for the notes of cynicism buried just beneath the surface that he managed to tease out of her. He’d savored the tartness of her barbs, enjoyed working them around his mouth even hours after she’d left. Every interaction he managed to get with her demonstrated the unique attention to detail and ability to read people and situations that kept her alive in the lion’s den. She fought with her wits, a trait he deeply admired because it reminded him of himself. The twisted, harsh environment of King’s Landing had sharpened her tongue and made a much better liar of her as well. A consequence of such skill was her family’s perpetual inability to see the pain she was in--the toll it took on her--though it was readily apparent to him.

When they’d been forced to part--interrupted by the braying call of one of Joffrey’s lackeys--his lips had lingered a bit too long on her hand to count as chivalry, and she’d shivered before pulling herself free of his grip. She knew he worked for the king as part of the small council--he’d made no attempt to hide it or deflect from it, even giving her pieces of the information he was privilege to, reasoning that to get trust from her he’d have to offer it first. He hoped she had started to consider him an ally, or, if nothing else, separate in her mind from the Lannister machine that threatened her very existence. He’d made a careful study of her body language and expressions over the years--a byproduct of the inordinate amount of time he spent watching her--and his efforts had seemingly not been in vain. She had warmed to him, was attracted to him at the very least, even if she didn’t trust him yet. Intrigue he could work with, mold into something darker, deeper, more permanent.

After her opponent fled in humiliating defeat, Sansa next commented on one of her friend’s posts boasting of a holiday somewhere warm and tropical--answering the backhanded ‘wish you were here’ with the grace and prudence that served her so well. She sent off a few more replies--texts, as nothing further was posted publicly--before setting the phone down beside her once more. (He would’ve liked to be able to read the contents of those as well, purely out of curiosity of course, but acknowledged that there must be a limit to his intrusion, however begrudgingly.) She relaxed into the couch, gazing absently around the room, likely grateful to be anywhere but on the arm of the shithead she’d come with, most probably. He found the tension in himself likewise loosen, the steady throb of his arousal notwithstanding. Watching her kept him calm, dampening if not silencing entirely the mad rush of thoughts and ideas running through his head.

Abruptly, she turned to the side table next to her, retrieving the glass perched there to sip from it. He found himself irrationally jealous of the drinkware she pressed against her lips, mouth watering as he watched the muscles of her throat work to swallow. With a pained groan he relented, finally moving to release his tortured cock from its confinement. After unbuckling his belt, he undid the zipper of his trousers (which had been digging in painfully enough that he wouldn’t have been surprised to see a mark), trying to imagine what it would be like to have Sansa’s hot little hand seek him out--bold and cunning or shy and bashful? He knew she had experience but it was all the wrong kind, from what he could see--he brushed that thought aside quickly, not wanting his perpetual rage at her torment to spoil the moment. He would make it so good for her, ease her into the pleasures that had been denied her, he thought as he pushed down his boxers, erase all the bad associations she might have. He wrapped a hand around his erection loosely, needing the contact to take the edge off but wanting to make this last as long as possible. He undid the buttons of his dress shirt as well, opening it to bare his chest and stomach. He pinched a nipple in passing, imagining it was her teeth biting at him playfully, the resulting burst of pain/pleasure shooting down his spine most deliciously, then reached without looking away from the screen, his hand finding the tumbler of whisky on his desk blindly. The smooth burn down his throat paled in comparison to the heat and lust the girl inspired in him by merely _existing._

Slowly, his hand pumped up and down his length, thumb swiping over the head to spread precum on the upstroke. He could pretend that his hand was hers, much smaller, delicate, with pretty red-coated nails. She would no doubt tease him, drive him mad with want--she had a particular talent for it even if she didn’t know it. He put down his drink in favor of reaching down to cup his heavy sac, rolling and squeezing between his fingers as he wondered what beautiful noises she would make when she came. He could practically feel the silky material of her dress cupping her breasts, smooth under his fingers as he drew it down to expose more of her to devour. He wondered if her skin would taste as sweet as it smelled. He’d bought the products she wore, trying to replicate her scent with limited success, missing the essential element that was uniquely _her._

She finished her drink, licking the stray drops from her lips, and he couldn’t help but whimper. _Gods_ , he hissed, gripping himself more firmly and increasing the tempo of his strokes. She was so much better than Cat, in every way. He made note of the discarded glass on the table next to her--later he will fetch it himself to drink from, licking the rim to chase any taste she might’ve left on it. He had no compunction about doing things that most would consider pathetic or unseemly--not if it let him be closer to her in some small way.

Her phone buzzed again but this time when she picked it up to view the screen, a shadow passed over her face; he inferred her despicable paramour had demanded her presence once again. Gritting his teeth, he resolved to ensure she would not have to suffer the little shitstain’s whims for long. He wondered if she thought it odd that she always seemed to find a means of escape in his domain when she sought it--an open door, a convenient interruption by an ever-so-helpful staff member, drugs and drink that were a bit stronger than the standard, leaving Joffrey and his minions blissfully unconscious and unable to deal her further damage, etc. His intentions were anything but honorable, though as protective as they were licentious.

With a sigh of disgust, she tucked her phone back in her bag, shouldering it, then reluctantly rose to her feet. His breath caught, throat suddenly dry, as she walked toward him to the mirror. It was almost as if she knew where the camera was, framing her face perfectly as she retrieved lipstick from her bag. The rose blush was his favorite shade; it was closest to her naturally full lips. Blue eyes that made the sky envious of their clarity and the sea jealous of their depths captivated him utterly; her gaze bore into his as if she could see him--impossible but oh how he wished it. The two way mirror would have been even better in person, but there was no guarantee she would still be in the room there by the time he made it down several flights of stairs.

The motions of his hand curled around his cock became more purposeful, breath growing ragged and deep. The other he brought to the screen, caressing it as if he could feel the soft, warm skin of her cheek, fingers trailing down to her mouth. She reapplied the coat carefully as his finger likewise traced over her lips on the screen, imagining parting them with his thumb, then the much thicker tip of his cock, picturing her tongue darting out to swirl around the head. He wanted so badly to taste her, to lick the color off her lips, dive between to explore her mouth, tangle her tongue with his. Searing heat built in his bollocks, abdomen clenching with the effort of holding back as he tugged at his cock in a rough, desperate rhythm. He longed to give her the attention and worship she deserved, would happily devote the remainder of his existence to licking her into oblivion if she let him. He’d give her anything, everything--

He was lost suddenly at a part of her lips and a swipe of her tongue over her teeth, tumbling over the edge in sweet, tortured pleasure, straining to hold onto her visage even as sparks whited out his vision. Her name escaped his lips in a low guttural growl as he came, thick ropes of cum spraying halfway up his chest, spilling over his knuckles-- an impressive amount, considering he did this daily, if not more often--rocking into his own hand, slowing only when the motion became painful.

 _Fucking hell._ If he came this hard just imagining her, when he finally would be allowed the privilege of being inside her she might well kill him. Breath calming, he watched her prepare herself for the confrontation ahead like the warrior she was, resetting the wain mask of victim with which she covered her despair and rage and hatred, and saw himself. She really was perfect for him in every way but one--she was not yet ready, a truth which he lamented frequently. He let his seed cool on heated skin in onanistic tribute, an offering to his personal deity, the goddess that knew not the power she had over him. It was a good thing he’d unbuttoned his shirt--he’d ruined enough clothing already in similar endeavors. Idly, he drew a finger through the congealing mess, fancying it might be her tongue sampling the prize she’d won from him, marking him as hers utterly.   
  
Finally, she turned and walk away from the mirror-- _from him--_ and the loss he felt was profound. He consoled himself that it was only a matter of time before she would be his. He could wait a bit longer, even if he had to resort to grasping at scraps of her that were barely adequate to keep himself sane. Letting out a long, shuddering sigh, he leant forward to open a new feed in order to follow her progress through the halls of his club. Thirsty from his exertions, he snatched up his glass, gulping down the remainder of the alcohol as he watched her thread her way through the scattered crowds, trying not to even blink, not wanting to miss a single second.

**Author's Note:**

> So this isn't an update on The Company of Wolves, for which I deeply apologize. I haven't abandoned that by any means, and I appreciate all the feedback and encouragement I've gotten on it. Thanks as always for reading, and any comments would be much appreciated as well.


End file.
